


Red Flags and Flight Suits

by Kicker



Series: Red Flags and Flight Suits [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, POV First Person, POV Hancock, Sexual Content, Smut, Spoilers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The warning signs were there. He didn't see 'em. Didn't listen. </p><p>He's in damn good company.</p><p>This is the story of how the most charming ghoul in the Commonwealth found he had something in... uh... common... with the most bigoted asshole in said Commonwealth.</p><p>That something? Yeah. She's pissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three

**Author's Note:**

> Guide to the series:  
> 1\. [The Smut](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103) (this one)  
> 2\. [The Angst](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608)  
> 3\. [The Liar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359)  
> 4\. [The Dame](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120)

Ah, the Third Rail. Dark. Clammy. Stinks of cigarette smoke, laced with stale jet and the sweat of the people huffing it. Beautiful. Homey, if you don't think too hard about what the fuck your shoes are sticking to. Right now, the place is pretty full. I'm hosting a little soirée, you see, a Hancock get-to-know-you special, an opportunity to make some friends, strike some deals, if you know what I'm saying.

My favorite girl's here, of course. Guest of honor. Special invite sent by brahmin. I know as well as you do that if there's a discount behind the bar, she's the first in line, but these guys? They don't know that. They see a vixen in a dress, and they come flocking. Especially when there's stories of deathclaws, raiders, gunners...

Uh... actually, I better check the guestlist, cos that could turn out awkward.

Speaking of the dress, this is a good one. Red, deep red, glitters like a handful of diamonds scattered in a pool of blood. Any woman in this dress would be a knockout, but this one? She's a mininuke landing on a pile of fusion cores. And I've seen her do that in real life, so I can validate that simile. Add to that a pair of heels that make the cutest tip-tap as she walks, and the bag of shotguns I made her stash behind the bar, and you got a recipe for disaster.

All eyes are on her. Well, my eyes are on her, can't tear 'em away from her in fact, and I know she don't dislike that because she ain't stabbed me yet.

We’re sitting here, pride of place, or propping up the bar, one or the other, watching some lovely young thing finish off a passable set. Not to Magnolia's standards, but she needed a night off and nobody's really listening anyway. There’s a scuffle at the door. Not exactly rare, and my boys are handling it, but there’s raised voices and people start to turn around.

I take a look. Well. This is interesting.

"Two tin cans and a beard in a coat," I say. "One of yours?"

She takes a look over her shoulder, rolls her eyes. "In a way. Maxson. Brotherhood Maxson."

"Oh," I say. "That asshole. You invite him? I thought I was your plus one."

She taps her fingertips on the bar. "It's your party, Hancock, you're nobody's plus one. Plus, I wouldn't invite him to set fire to him."

"Okay," I say. I don't want her to set fire to him, the last cleanup cost a lot of caps. But that doesn't have to be the end of the story. So I grin. "Wanna fuck with him?"

She doesn’t say anything, but that is a smirk.

I think that might be a yes.

What to do, what to do. Well. If anything she's told me is true, he's probably here to berate her for keeping bad company. For inappropriate conduct. Unseemly activity.

I think it may be time to get unseemly.

So I get up. Trot on over to the stage. Grab the microphone.

"Get out or get in," I intone, "but leave those tin cans outside and quit spoiling the mood."

Heavy footsteps. He's on his way. And oh yes, he is here for her. Heading right for her, and he is angry. Furious. Virile. Beard like that at an age like that, has to be.

"Knight," he starts, and how he manages to speak with his jaw clamped so tight I don't even know. Everybody has a talent, right? Some of 'em more useful than others.

"Maxson," she says, turning away to stub out her cigarette, giving him an exquisite view of the back of her shoulder. It ain't the most dramatic gesture, but it certainly gets her point across.

It's _fuck you_. In case you hadn't realised it, not having the benefit of said exquisite shoulder. I only say because I'm not entirely sure if he gets it, either, and it's directed at him. Sure, he's standing with his fists clenched, so he might get it, but we are in Goodneighbor, and that's not exactly an unusual posture.

Regardless. He's causing a distraction, and that's my job.

 _Asshole_.

"Sit down, friend, join the party," I say.

Fahrenheit's hand is on his shoulder, assisting him onto a chair. He sits, somewhat unsurprisingly.

Now, I can't keep the shit-eating grin from my face. I click my fingers. Spotlight snaps on to me like eyes to her ass. Like eyes to my ass, too. She ain't the only one with a fanclub.

Hold that thought.

I'm gonna be honest. Just for now, back to normal service in a moment, don't worry.

Here's the truth.

I'm not a natural dancer. I mean, we've all had times, hopped up on chems, when we think we're the best dancers in the universe. Most of the time, we're not. Most of the time, we're probably just embarrassing ourselves. But sometimes, there's this one song, and this one person, and it just... flows.

No, not that, don't be disgusting. I mean the dancing.

The upright dancing.

Oh my god. Do I need to call someone to fish you out of the gutter? Stop that.

(Don't stop that, I love it.)

Anyway, as I was about to say, there's this one song where me and her... we just get it. So I call for it. I adjust my hat to a particularly rakish angle, step out onto what I shall temporarily call the dancefloor, and I hold out my hand.

Spotlight swings over to her. She stands, shrugs off her jacket. Red sparks fly from that dress as the light hits it, it's like a piece of metal going under a blowtorch. Little dots of flame all over the beard, and the coat, and oh...

Oh.

I know that face. That is the face of a man getting an eyeful. A man who's just noticed how you could wrap your hands round that tiny waist, smooth them down over that delicious ass, plant a kiss on that sweet neck, and I'm getting distracted, ain't I. Ha.

She tip-taps up to me, and she's got that smirk, the one that encourages me to do bad things. And so I do wrap my hands around that tiny waist, and I do smooth them down over that delicious ass, but we've got some mischief to make, so no kissing right now. Cool it, Hancock.

We're circling, touching hands, doing that thing where you just raise your arm and she twirls all the way around you. Then when she steps away, watches what you do, drops when you drop, leans away when you lean in, and vice versa of course, catches your hand almost before you reach it out...

Fuckin' dynamite.

The whole time this is happening, he's glaring over like an angry deathclaw. Now... I understand jealousy. I got a fierce case of it myself, when it comes to her. I know she's outta my league, I know she doesn't want to wake up to this face every morning. Just... some of them, if you catch my drift. But for a brief moment, I feel bad for him. Cos he hasn't even noticed the signs. Red fucking flags, all up in his face. Oblivious.

That moment of indulgence is over cos her arms are stretching up high, warm back sliding down my front like wow. I take off my hat, use it to fan my face because if I had any skin left it'd be blushin' rosy red.

His scowl deepens. Somehow.

These fingers of mine may look rough, but they still got feelings, you know? And there really is something special about stroking your hand over a sequinned dress, whether it's over a hip, around a waist, or any other part of her. She presses her hips into mine, lets me bend her right over backwards, hair practically brushing the floor. That's trust, that is.

Oh my. If she can't feel what's happening in my pants right now it might be the first time I've had cause to regret the whole ghoulification thing. Immortality, but at what cost?

Heavy sigh.

We close out the song. A scattering of applause, most of it from Fahrenheit, and I'm not entirely sure how to take that. The band moves onto the next track. Some folk with considerably less chemistry than us two hop to their feet. I bury my face in her hair, trying to regain some composure. She smells like whiskey and smoke and jet and _her_. All my favorite things. She pulls back a little, whispers "you're my favorite, too".

Fuck. What's a ghoul supposed to say to that?

This ghoul doesn't say anything, just grins and kisses her hand. Plays it cool, like the sophisticated gentleghoul he is. Watches her walk away. Watches her grab a cigarette, light it right in front of the beard. Watches her tip-tap away into the back room.

Watches the asshole follow her.

Well. This ghoul had better go after 'em, right? Gotta keep an eye on his favorite girl.

Ah, shit.

Cigarette's lying on the floor, sending a curl of smoke up into the air. Bead curtain's still tinkling. He’s got her up against the wall, a gun pressed to her temple.

"Conduct unbecoming of the Brotherhood," he’s saying. "I should execute you on the spot."

On the one hand, I'm kinda worried.

On the other... is this his first time in Goodneighbor? I mean, that's a rookie mistake, assuming that a woman in a dress ain't armed and ready to defend herself. And, uh, when it's this particular woman in this particular dress...

Maybe he ain't seen that side of her yet.

One.

Two.

Thr... there it is.

She’s bashing his wrist against the wall, the gun’s skittering along the floor like an excitable radroach.

Youth of today. No foresight. She's pressed up close against him, and I can't really see much in this light, but his head is jerking away from her like she's got a knife at his throat. Her knee's slowly pressing between his, sequins rubbing against the rough fabric of his pants. That slight warmth of thigh against thigh...

Where was I. Oh yeah. So she’s pressed up against him, and there's a metallic clatter, so I guess I was right about the knife, and oh. Well. It looks for all the world like she’s using her free hand to get into his pants. In fact, she’s dropping to her knees, and his chest is heaving like he’s been running from a behemoth. I can't see his expression, but I note that he ain't moving, and he ain’t pushing her away.

And I know her well enough to know she's doing the thing with her eyes, where she don't touch you til she knows you're looking.

He looks down at her.

She takes him into the sweet warmth of her mouth, grabbing his hands, guiding them to the back of her head, tousling them in her hair and good god. That’s just obscene. I’m too impressed to be jealous, and so’s he, judging by that groan.

She's going soft and slow, but he's not gonna last long, by the looks of things. Couple minutes, tops, and he is just about to burst. Rookie, like I said. But oh. Before he can, she pushes away his hands, gets to her feet. Grabs him by that beard, forces his eyes to hers, brushes her lips against his cheek so she can speak in his ear.

"How's this for unbecoming," she says, "you fucking asshole."

Tip-tap, out of the room.

He's just standing, breathing. Can't do much else in the situation, exposed like this in the back room of a dive bar in Goodneighbor. Back against the wall, sliding down it, collapsing on his haunches, head in his hands.

I love her, truly, but this is both cruel and dangerous. This one's a big cheese. The beard that launched a giant flying metal dick. A thousand tin goons to obey his every command.

I hope she knows what she's doing.

I really fucking do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Four](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120/chapters/13874929)  
> Previous chapter: [Two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359/chapters/13663663)


	2. Seven

The second time he shows up, we'd been having a nice evening game of chess. Wherein, we sit and look at a chessboard while consumin' copious quantities of chems. Good wholesome fun. Her head's lollin' against the back of the sofa, and she's slurrin' more'n I am, cos this is a good batch. A really good batch. Fuck, I want to hug the guy that brought it to me, 'cept I think it was Fahrenheit and she ain't exactly the huggin' type.

There's a commotion from downstairs. I'm less surprised than I should be when word comes that it's a beard in a coat. No specific word of tin cans but you can infer.

"The fuck?" she says.

"Aww," I say, with a grin. "He really likes you!"

"Fuck," she says.

Eloquent, as always. I'm curious, though. "What'd you do this time?"

"Nothing!" she exclaims. "Well, nothin' more'n usual."

"Maybe the usual is the problem?"

She fixes me with a slightly unsteady glare. "The usual is just fine," she says. "We came to somethin' of an... agreement. I feed 'em information. Bring 'em technological shit. I do what he says up there, he ignores what I do down here, as long as it don't conflict with... Brotherhood ideals."

She says it with a roll of the eyes, but mid-roll, her face drops. "Ah, fuck."

Oh. This has got to be good. "What did you do?" I say, sing-song.

"I told a certain _Brotherhood ideal_ to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up." She gesticulates, rudely. "He sassed Valentine, man. I guess it made it into a report, some-fuckin'-how."

"I don't know why you keep him around," I say, though I know perfectly well. She's described his ass on a number of occasions.

"A seven-foot tall bundle of steel and righteousness? What's not to like?" She snorts. "I told you about his ass already, right?"

"I feel like I know it personally," I say.

"Ah fuck. I guess I'd better go deal with this asshole."

"Okay," I say. But that can't be the end of the story. So I grin. "You ain't just gonna send him away, are you?"

"What else am I going to do?" she says. "He'll just make your mayoral chambers look untidy."

"Well," I say, twirling my inhaler. Dropping it. Always play the lovable idiot before you push your luck. Tip from me to you. "How about a little wager, sunshine?"

She doesn't say anything, but I know she's interested cos she ain't walked out yet.

"I bet", I say, enunciating carefully, not that I have to, "that you can't get him to eat you out while you're wearing that fine-ass coat of his."

She narrows her eyes. "You noticed the coat, huh?"

Questions the coat before the sexual thing. I see what's going on here.

"You know I have an eye for fashion," I say, stroking my own jacket. "And you know I worry about you gettin' cold, all your pretty dresses ain't so practical for a night in Goodneighbor."

Tonight's dress is blue, by the way. More subtle than the other one, the red flag special, this is more like... broken glass on a velvet tablecloth. Accidental bloodshed, instead of the other kind. You know.

There's the smirk. She's in.

"What are we betting?" she asks.

"Handful of caps. Handful of chems. Your choice of sexual favour. Or mine, of course, when you inevita..."

"Deal," she says, not even letting me finish. She's already up. Tip-taps her way to the top of the stairs. "Send him up," she calls, imperious.

I'm pretty sure I should be doing that, I mean these are my mayoral chambers or whatever it was she just said. But as a gesture of goodwill, I chuck her my tin of mentats, the personal stash, to straighten herself out a bit.

Yeah. I'm nice, ain't I?

I lean myself, nonchalant, against a doorframe. Tip my hat at him, when he appears, point him in the right direction. Charming smile. Get a dark frown in return. Well, get his face, in return, I don't think he has any other expressions.

I give it a few moments before I pad down the hallway after 'em. Light-footed. Subtle.

Don't look at me like that, I gotta make sure the terms of the bet are fulfilled, no?

Imagine the scene. An old dining room, in a room that sees no dining.

Yet.

I'm sorry, that was crude and unnecessary.

No, you're crude and unnecessary.

Wipin' a tear from my eye right now, this is beautiful. Jet. It's one hell of a drug.

They've thoughtfully left the door open, so I can post myself in the darkened corridor like the voyeuristic shadow I am. I think they've covered all the 'Knight, you're disgracing the Brotherhood' and 'Fuck you, Maxson' shit because they're stood a few feet apart, silent, poised like a pair of cats in the gutter.

"Give me the coat," she says, extending two fingers.

And now I'm wondering what else I missed, because he fuckin' does it. Drops it off his shoulders. Broad shoulders, they are, wide and strong. And looking at the cut of his flight suit, I understand a little better why she hangs out with these Brotherhood types.

He hangs the coat off those two fingers. Pulls off his gloves, too, throws them on the table beside her.

"Turn around," she says, and he does.

She buries her nose in the collar of the coat, catching my eye. She lays it out on the table, delicate, deliberate.

Maybe those mentats were a bad idea.

What's he hearing, right now? The long, slow sound of a zip being unzipped. The tinkling rustle that can only be made by sequinned fabric dropping onto a wooden floor, though I doubt he's as much of an expert on that sound as I am. The delicate one-two of her feet, as she toes the fabric away.

Tip-tap.

He flexes his hands and I would love to see the expression on his face right now. Must be a picture.

She's standing there smirking, in the scraps of fabric the ladies call underwear. A practised eye could tell you that the set don't match, but you can't be too fussy, these days. This ghoul's just realisin' she was wearing those the whole evening, and there we were just huffin' jet on the sofa. What a waste.

Well. Not so much of a waste, as things have turned out.

She's pulling the coat around her shoulders, brushing her cheek on the collar. Sliding her hands over the leather. Buckling the belt. Pulls on one of his gloves. She waggles her hand at me, bare fingertips glowing pink under a flickering electric light.

I blush to describe the gesture she's making at me right now. I think she's trying to indicate how large his hands are. Disgraceful. I don't know if she can make out my expression, but I can tell you it's disapproving. Yeah, that's totally what it is.

OK, sunshine. Half way there. Eyes on the prize.

She pulls the glove off her hand with her teeth, flings it over her shoulder. Presses her hands over the coat, over herself, frownin' like she's concentrating. Her mouth a little 'o' of surprise, she produces a packet of cigarettes and a gold-plated fliplighter. Lights up. Cuts off the flame with a snap.

To be honest, I'm starting to wonder what she actually gets up to on that zep. This is all goin' a bit easy, you know?

Ah, fuck it. If I am being taken for a ride right now? I'll take a season pass.

She tip-taps off around the room. Digs out a bottle of scotch, and the cheek of that girl, it's a bottle of the good stuff I left when I was entertaining in here last. She pours a slug into a filthy glass. Closes her lips around the neck of the bottle to take a swig, and catches my eye again.

Rude.

She arranges herself all demure, like, perched on the edge of that big old dining table.

"Maxson," she says. Holds out the glass. Waits.

He turns. He ain't so composed as she is. He's running his hand over the side of his head, scratching his neck before reaching out for the glass. Don't think I don't notice how his fingers brush against hers as he takes it, neither. Knocks it back in one, steps closer, pops it back on the table like a good boy.

She's a good hostess, you can't fault her for that, cos she's refilling his glass even while he's smoothing down the collar of the stolen coat. I'm pretty sure his thumb's stroking down her, ah, _décolletage_ , as I think folks call it when they're trying to be fancy.

She's offering him her cigarette, too, pressing it to his lips with a pair of fingers, looking away to blow out her own lungful of smoke.

Just the tiniest movement of her feet as she uncrosses her ankles, heel scraping on the floorboards. Cigarette's passed back, in a tangle of fingers.

He sinks down to his knees, and now she's lifting her feet outta the lower half of those lacy scraps.

Tip-tap.

Yeah. I just lost our bet. She didn't even need to say the words. His fingers are pressing into the outside of her thigh, and her fingers are pressing around the edge of that table like she's having trouble keeping upright.

Not surprising though. Imagine it. That beard running up the inside of your thigh, hot breath on whatever equipment you keep in those pants of yours, blue eyes looking up into yours. That other hand, the one I can't see, doing whatever it's doing to make her make that face.

Fuck. Now we've gone a full 180 because now I find myself a little annoyed that it ain't me in there receiving his tender attentions.

Who'da thought it.

 _Asshole_.

She's stroking her free hand all delicate-like over his head, tracing down that pale little line cut across his scalp, running a finger around the back of his ear. I wonder if he's an ear man. I was never an ear man, back when I had ears, just touch my dick already, you know? But there were more than a couple of folk I, aha, knew, you could nibble on their ears and they'd roll over for ya.

Heh. Those were the days.

He gets her, by the way. _Gets_ her. Boy's either a natural, or he's had some training. She doesn't know which way to look. Needs both hands to keep her upright, now. Leg that's supposed to be supporting her is shaking. Leg that's slung over his shoulder is trembling. Her head's rolling back, she's gasping, and credit to him, he's still going.

As she completely loses it, I hear a word. First word in a long time.

Yeah. It's 'fuck.'

I feel ya, sister.

Now if she were still playing it cool, she'd push him away with a carefully angled high heel. But she ain't so composed, right now. So he gets to get to his feet. Gets to drink that scotch she poured so nicely for him.

Now after the last time, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he leaned in. Snarled something mean in that pretty ear. Grabbed back his coat and left her there, in disgrace.

Color me surprised, he's less of an asshole than she is. Drinks half of that scotch, holds up the glass, offers the rest to her. Bends to pick up the dress, zips it up for her when she's stepped back in it.

I'm gonna leave 'em to it. Bit too nicey-nice for my liking. I make my exit, padding softly down the hall like I'm the one returning from the potentially... no, _actually_ scandalous liaison. I arrange her winnings on the chessboard. I spell out 'my hero' in caps and chems, cover it up with a cloth.

Here she comes. Tip-tap, into the room, hands behind her back. Her breath still ain't quite steady as I draw back the cloth.

"Oh," she says, covering her mouth with her hands. "For me?"

Yeah. She's wearing his gloves.

Never did find those panties again, neither.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Eight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120/chapters/13927917)  
> Previous chapter: [Six](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359/chapters/13737562)


	3. Eleven

She ain't doing any tip-tapping tonight. She turned up at the Rexford in her road gear, covered in dust and grime, lips cracked and bitten to shit. Right now, she's lying on her back on the floor. I'm sat beside her, stroking a hand over her forehead, trying to soothe her, but it ain't having much effect. She's angry. Furious. Virile. You might think 'oh no, that ain't no word for a lady' but if you want to come and say that to this particular lady's face right now, be my guest.

Bring your own tarp.

She's so far out of it, I'd think she'd done a couple hits of psycho, 'cept that normally involves more shouting. This is a cold rage, a bitter rage, a makes-you-shiver-in-your-bones rage.

Turns out her fine-assed Paladin has a plastic brain to go with his metal exterior. That makes him the enemy of the Brotherhood, or something. I mean, on the one hand, he's joining a distinguished list of folk that don't specifically exclude yours truly. But...

"Fucking asshole ordered me to execute him. Ordered me!"

"Did you do it?"

"Of course I fucking didn't," she says. "What the fuck?"

"Yeah, yeah, seven feet, steel, righteousness. You get him out of that flight suit yet?"

She glares up at the ceiling. "It's not about his ass. It's about where you draw the line."

"The line of his ass? You been sketchin'? Come on, you can be honest with me. Have you seen it?"

She laughs, and that's a relief cos if she's laughin', she ain't stabbin'.

Actually... that's not always true. And she's got that heave of the chest that says... well... run away.

"Just when I was... Fuck."

She falls silent, so's I can hear it clearly. A discouragingly familiar sound.

"Hoo," I say, "Must be a rush on at the Memory Den. Turned the backup generator on. Definitely not a vertibird."

Evading reality like a jethead who thinks he's a dancer.

She sits bolt upright. "I'm gonna fuckin' tear him apart."

I wrap her fingers around a mostly-empty bottle of scotch I find in the corner. Look her dead in the eyes. "Limb from limb, love." I say. "I know. I'll fetch a tarp."

Another bottle, too.

I'm down in the lobby, leaning over the desk, asking for my personal stash, you know, the good stuff, the mayoral stuff, when the door opens. Blast of cold air. Chilling. None of the usual commotion, but drifters still shrink under his sweeping glare.

Fahrenheit lights a cigarette. _Don't try anything, you fucking asshole_.

Telepathy. It's real.

Now... I could just tell him to get the fuck out. It would probably be easier. For him. For me. For the cleanup team.

But this ain't the end of the story.

I uncork the scotch. Pour out. Noisy. That real satisfying glug-glug you only get from a certain shape bottle. There's a reason this is my mayoral choice, and it ain't the taste.

Well, it does have a taste.

A taste of the dramatic.

(I thank you.)

"You again," he says.

"This is my town," I reply, cheerful.

"She your girl, too?" he asks.

"Nah," I say, "she ain't a girl, and she ain't my property. We have a more... equitable relationship."

His face is a picture. Pickman style, though, nothin' you'd actually want to put on your wall. Lotsa black paint, splashes of blood, splinters of bone, maybe a bit of burning ash, for texture.

I hold out a glass. "Now. You ain't gonna make a scene. You're gonna stay here with me a moment, maybe conversate a little."

"Why would I do that?" he says.

"Cos we got something in common. A someone, who's upstairs right now staring at the cracks in the ceiling. And if we can't get along, she's gonna get angry. And, uh, I think we both know what happens when _that_ happens."

He takes the glass. Smarter than I thought.

"Anyways," I continue, "what I'm tryin' to say is that we're not so different, you and I."

Her first words to describe him to me were 'dirty bigoted asshole', so I hope that's not really true.

"She walks into your domain. She don't look like much, right? You do your thing, imperious 'n shit, and you could forget you ever met her. But you start hearing things."

I'm pacing in front of him, gesticulating with my glass, arm behind my back, declaiming like I'm on a stage.

"People are saying she's hot stuff. People you trust. Unbiased sources. And still, you're thinking she's nothing special. But the stories keep on coming. You're interested. And then you catch her looking at you. And you think hey. What's _that_ about."

That face, it don't move. Locked in a frown. Reminds me of someone.

"But it's just professional curiosity, right? Nothing more. Until late night, it comes back to you. What _did_ that look mean. What _does_ she want. What _does_ that skin feel like, pressed up close?"

He's clutchin' that glass like it's life.

"So you start taking risks. Going places you maybe shouldn't go. Doing things you definitely shouldn't do. Oh, you realise, with a guilty start. You're trying to make her notice you."

I pour him another drink, cos he seems to be having difficulty breathing, and strong alcohol helps with that, right?

Glug-glug.

I clap him on the shoulder, rest my glass against his.

"Brother, I know how you feel. But quit bringin' your issues to my door. Commonwealth is big enough for the both of us. I don't shit in your airport, so quit disturbin' my happy little community."

He ain't that much taller than me, so I can fix his baby blues with my inky blacks and finish with a threat I probably can't follow up on.

_This is your last fuckin' chance._

And it ain't even fair. She's the one that keeps coming back here. It's her choice, even if it is my doing.

If you know what I mean.

I think you do.

Still. I grab the bottle. Tell him to follow me. Lead him up the stairs like we're heading to a romantic entanglement of our own, 'cept with a lot less of the groping than those stairs normally see.

She's silhouetted in neon, arms folded around herself. Curl of smoke rising from her cigarette. Clichéd, perhaps, but effective.

I fill a couple of glasses on the table for 'em. "You need a referee? A safe word?"

She glares over her shoulder.

"I was talking to him," I say to her. "But maybe he don't know about that kinda play."

Glaring. From both of them. Strikes me they're more alike than they think. I pat him on the shoulder. Broad shoulders, good and strong, did I mention that already? "Just shout, ok?" I say. "Try to bleed slow, so I got a chance to save ya."

She stubs out the cigarette on the window frame. Turns with her arms still folded.

"You've got some nerve," she says.

Yep. He does.

"I could fucking kill you," she says.

Yep. She could.

She covers her face with her hands. She's growling, turning away, clenching her fists like she's about to punch out the fuckin' window. He grabs her arm, pulls her to him. Recipe for a knee to the soft parts, if you ask me, but somehow he catches her, presses his lips to hers, and I suppose that's one way to delay the inevitable.

She's grabbing the sides of his face, and that's a good starting point for snapping a neck if you're so inclined. But... that's entirely the wrong stance, you don't press your hips into his, you stand back, balance your weight. 

And you do not put your hand there, oh my god.

Disgraceful.

Now, I see you looking at that threadbare old chair, under the window. You're thinkin' that I'm going to sit myself down in it and watch the show. Maybe adjust my hat, tip it down almost over my eyes, so they can think I'm not watchin'. Just part of the murder prevention squad.

Well. Maybe I do.

But maybe I got a good imagination, and a lifetime of material to fuel it.

Maybe I got a reputation for bein' impure, that I need to uphold.

I definitely got a couple of lungs full of jet I snuck when you weren't lookin'.

Take all that as you will.

She's angry, so he's gonna lose his pants first. Guaranteed. When she's got him how she wants him, she's going to raise her chin and back him onto the nearest surface, soft or otherwise.

He'll probably let her.

She'll let him pull off her jacket, slip her shirt over her shoulders.

First thing she does when she gets back from travelling is whip off her brassiere. So when that shirt drifts to the ground, her back's gonna glow bare under those neons. He can run his hand right down her spine, maybe let out an appreciative sigh as she arches under his touch.

Then he'll probably hook his fingers in her belt, sliding those pants off her legs. Get distracted by those legs, long legs they are, shapely legs. Lots of walking. He'll stroke a hand round her ankle, up her calf, over her knee. Maybe risk a little nudge of the cheek against that knee, remind her of last time.

She's gonna be getting impatient, though, cos she's angry and needs to get it out of her system. So as soon as he's settled between her thighs, those lovely thighs, she'll have a hand round the back of his neck, pulling him down to her. Shadowy eyes. Bit of tooth, wolfish. Lil' flash of tongue going into that kiss.

I know, brother. I know.

He wants her so bad he can taste it. She's nipping his ear between her teeth, grazing nails soft over his scalp, digging fingertips into whatever bodypart her hand's currently roaming, glorious sinner that she is.

Come on in, she says, and he does. Crushes the breath out of her.

She laughs, a breathy laugh. A good laugh. If you can charm her like that, you're doing something right.

And if you can do the particular kind of _something right_ where you can feel it in your chest, in your arms, in your wrists, in everything that's near her? And her eyes just look up at you and say give me more?

You do it.

Fingers flexing, on damp skin and unfeeling fabric. One or both of 'em is surrendering themselves. World receding. No Commonwealth. No Rexford. Nothing but her and the words falling from her lips.

 _Fall apart_ , she says. _Come undone. I'm doing this. Me. I am tearing you apart. Limb from fucking limb._

After, it's just skin against skin, warm and soft. Legs and arms around him, holding him close, possessive. What is there to do but wrap his arms around her, press them under her back, smile into the side of her face like she don't know what he's about. Hold her like she's the only thing anchoring him to reality, not that reality's much to shout about these days.

I don't see him leave. I guess he does, unless there's an unpleasant surprise waiting for a cleanup team. She shows up, fresh glass of scotch hanging from her fingers. Bottle in the other hand. She's thoughtful, like that.

"Love," I say, as she drops down into a chair. "I hope you know what you're doin'."

She shakes her head. "Not a fuckin' clue."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Twelve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120/chapters/13996489)  
> Previous chapter: [Ten](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359/chapters/13789339)
> 
> please do leave me a comment if you have any thoughts, either here or on [tumblr](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com). 


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